Alicubi Inter
by Sorkari
Summary: Alfred knew what beasthood entailed. The allure of blood, the beginnings of sunken pupils - it was only a matter of time before he started to give in.


**A/N:** I just encountered Ludwig on my NG+4 play through and needed some therapy smut so here we are

* * *

They had only met a few times.

They got along surprisingly well. Their first visit had started with Alfred talking, perhaps a bit too eagerly, of the Vilebloods and the Healing Church. And the Hunter, inscrutable through the mask he wore, was too clueless, too fascinated by it all. It ended with them skewed about haphazardly against the cobblestone, skin burning, mouths slotted recklessly together.

Each other time had become more eager, more bestial, until Alfred had bitten hard enough to break skin.

It had been after the Grand Cathedral had echoed with the last dying screams of a fearful vicar, when the Hunter appeared to him, suddenly, breathlessly as always. Perhaps it had been for comfort, or out of a form of habit, Alfred didn't know. But Alfred recognized the metallic, yet oddly sweet scent, and it sung to him, lured him with its copper melody. Then it was hard not to bite again, and even harder to resist licking the blood that slicked their lips when the Hunter whined in response.

Alfred knew what beasthood entailed. The allure of blood, the beginnings of sunken pupils - it was only a matter of time before he started to give in. But with the Hunter on him, in him, filling his senses with tantalizing life in such a soulless world, he didn't think he cared enough to resist it. Not in the moment, anyways.

A lot of times, the Hunter appeared unscathed, but this time felt different.

The Hunter was still eager, always was, once they had broken past that barrier of tentative acquaintanceship. His fingers scrabbled against stone to keep balance, grinding eagerly against Alfred through their garbs, a needy sound barely audible past his mask as Alfred's hands found their way to his hips.

The light of the altar was no longer present now that they had replaced the candles. Alfred debated moving out of respect. But the muted pleasure of the Hunter grinding in his lap was all too tantalizing, and Alfred settled on encouraging the behavior, altar be damned. In a world of beasts, what's one more blasphemous shame? Alfred tugged on the numerous buckles that were secured around the Hunter's torso, undoing the buttons of his shirt and coat, until he finally, finally reached skin.

When he pulled away, his fingers came up a deliciously bright crimson, the sweet, pungent smell of blood and the moon instantly reaching his nostrils.

At the silence that followed, the Hunter pulled his mask off to breathlessly explain, "One of the beasts nicked me. I didn't think it mattered."

"You must patch this up, before . . ." he trailed off as the connection to the rational side of him started to blur. There was something so mesmerizing in the wet glisten of the blood on his fingers, something that called to him so sweetly that he almost leaned in to lick it off. He painstakingly looked away. "Before it festers. Before . . ."

The grinding started again, this time slow, rhythmic. The Hunter, sinuous in the hushed plea of his tone, said, "The blood. It sings to you, does it not? You recognize it, don't you?"

"I - I shan't, I -"

Then the Hunter's gloved hand reached his bloodied one, guiding it over to smooth across his torso. It trailed lower, smearing the smooth, pallid skin, until it reached the beginnings of the wound. It was a silent question, a pleading one, one that Alfred was sure he would regret, sure he would come to loathe himself for. But when the pungent scent lured him and pressure of the Hunter on his arousal became almost unbearably frustrating, he couldn't deny himself any longer, could not deny the demons that reared in his mind.

The strength of the smell intensified as he curled his fingers and dug his nails in, hard and deliberate. He drew another well of blood and a small, keening noise from the back of the Hunter's throat. There was no point in hiding something so damnably vile under an all-seeing moon. Alfred's lips pressed soft, almost apologetic kisses along the length of the Hunter's neck.

"Your blades. Where are they?"

The deep growl that reverberated from Alfred's chest sent the Hunter writhing in anticipation. He absentmindedly patted down the coat that hung loosely from his pale shoulders, eventually drawing one of his two daggers. Alfred accepted it, swayed by the deadly, talon-like curve that it adorned. It was small, diminutive, flowed smoothly in his fingers, sung to him just like his pretty little Hunter. One hand, already graced with such a blessing, reached down to undo the Hunter's final belt, the other drawing the tip of the blade across skin.

Alfred swallowed thickly, a slight tremor in his frame. An onslaught of sweet euphoria was eminent, lurking somewhere in his mind, waiting to pounce. The moment the tip of the blade caught the corner of the wound, the Hunter clutched his wrist. It was an encouraging gesture, surprisingly soft and gentle and everything that Alfred could not be. The stark comparison was more than enough. He met no resistance as he drug the blade across ever so slowly.

Blood sang in his nostrils and deep in his lungs as it spilled over the blade, and finally, onto his tongue when he sunk his teeth into the crook of the Hunter's neck. The bite forced the Hunter into submission with a tremulous gasp. But that grip on his wrist never did pull, never asked him to stop. A flesh wound, all blood and agonizing burn, and while thick and sweet, it was not satisfying. Alfred licked the blood that welled in the deep mark that tarnished such ethereal skin, the saccharine melody of it finally swaying him and marring the divide between rationale and bestial desire.

It didn't take much to dig the blade deeper. He sunk it into the wound, further than before with a strength he didn't care enough to contain. A choked sound left those thin lips, and Alfred yearned to draw more, more. His bloodied fingers had wrapped around the Hunter's cock, languid caresses offering a moment's reassurance. He twisted the blade and tore it out with a grotesquely wet rip.

The dagger fell onto the cobblestone before the altar with a metallic screech. Alfred caressed the slick, torn folds of the wound. A frustrated noise left The Hunter when Alfred dug his fingers in, just for one tempting moment.

"Alfred, I need -"

The Hunter didn't finish, didn't have to. Alfred delved deeper, roughly, messily. Warmth enveloped his hand, the snakes within writhing and slipping over his fingers and out of his grasp each time. The scent sent his head spinning in muddled euphoria, and he craved to get lost in it, to let it control him. Something close to a sob left the Hunter's lips when Alfred ripped out what he could. It spilled over his lap, slicking his cock, the aroma of such a sweet substance thick and heavy in the air.

"Alfred," the Hunter desperately gasped, his hips bucking uncontrollably into the wet, tight grip of Alfred's hand. "Alfred -"

"Oh?" Alfred halted in his movement. "What is it, dear Hunter?"

The Hunter started to utter something, but the attempt fell apart when Alfred tugged again, harder and harder until something snapped.

"It hurts," he managed to whine, a soft, beautifully delicate sound.

Alfred hummed with sick satisfaction. He started up again, squeezing and stroking with drunken fervor, his hand lost somewhere in the entrails that slowly rolled over the Hunter's lap and onto the front of the altar. The sloshing of blood and entrails at the Hunter's lap was another sweet melody, as mesmerizing as the blood in his nostrils and on his tongue. To end such an entrancing song, the Hunter finally let out a tremulous moan, loud and shameless and ridiculously lewd, his head falling back against Alfred's shoulder. Alfred walked him through it, slid his hand along the slick, sticky mess until the Hunter was a boneless, lethargic mess in his lap.

Despite the viscera, the marks, and the torn clothing, there was still something so sweet, so delicate in the way the Hunter pressed closer to Alfred's chest with a quiet hum. It was pathetic, but still so breathtakingly divine. Alfred didn't care for the heat that pooled in his lower abdomen, nor the slowly fading high. He leaned back, pulling the Hunter along with him, and watched as the clouds slowly inched across the bright, precious jewel of a moon.

Alfred would contemplate this, no doubt, sometime long into the night when the intoxication of bloodlust became all the more apparent. The Hunter would also be gone, leaving naught but a cloud of fluttering dust. Alfred couldn't find it in himself to care about either one, though. The bloodlust always returned, but so did the Hunter, and the night wasn't too maddening when he was there to occupy it.


End file.
